


Still have pieces of you stuck on me (it's a cruel war)

by the_authors_exploits



Series: Feeds on the ego, Swallows the pain [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Titans (TV 2018)
Genre: 2x07, @DC let them hug, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts, big bro dick, fixit, jason is touch starved whaaaat, maybe???, whoda thunk???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 06:43:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21114416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_authors_exploits/pseuds/the_authors_exploits
Summary: Jason's going to be the death of him but that's okay. Kid deserves someone who'll die for him.





	Still have pieces of you stuck on me (it's a cruel war)

_ Is somebody missing? _

He looks about the room, counts heads and studies faces; they didn’t hear Bruce, because Bruce isn’t really there, and Dick almost ignores the warning. Almost, will forever be thankful he didn’t. Because everyone’s staring at him, waiting an explanation, waiting for something more than the fevered ramblings of a paranoid bird waving a gun in their living quarters.

And then the air is gone; it’s sucked far, far, far away--as far as the kid had been when gravity, the cruel mistress, had pulled him out of Dick’s grasp. As far as his parents’ bodies when they splattered across a dusty circus tent’s ground.

“Jason.”

His first thought is that Deathstroke could get his hands on the boy again. That he could do more harm than he already has, that this time Jason might not make it. He spirals from there; what if Deathstroke already has the boy? What if he’s bleeding out somewhere? The tower is so large, so many places to hide away, so he goes for the cameras.

There’s no time to be irrational, no time to lose his head and look behind every door, in every closet; the computer is as fast as the batcomputer but it feels like dialup. Dick has bugs under his skin.

“Hurry up, dammit!” he bangs his hand against the desk; the screen clicks from camera angle to camera angle, static at times, but clear enough that Dick spots him immediately.

Of course; Robins like height. But that--the idea of solidarity, the freedom flying gives--offers no comfort right now; in a split second Dick wonders just how long the kid’s been standing there, how long it will take him to go from the surveillance room to the rooftop, if there’s enough time…

He refuses to go through that again, thankful his shoes have good traction because the tower floors are always so slippery, and he runs; his lungs don’t burn, his legs don’t falter, and he’s grateful when he bursts through the rooftop door to find Jason still standing there.

“Jason!” It’s a cry of relief and fear.

“I keep falling,” is the response; a soft admission, fear there too, and Dick doesn’t think he’s ever heard the kid’s voice so soft before. His voice isn’t broken, but it is cracked and trembling.

Dick breathes, wants to step closer to be safe but stays where he is for now. “You’re okay.”

“No; it won’t stop.” There’s a break before he seems to get hold of himself again; his voice evens out, bland and bored, and he lists off everyone he’s let down. Bruce, relatives, teachers, cops… He tacks Dick on at the end and Dick’s chest squeezes painfully tight, like a giant has reached into his chest, ripped his heart out, and smashed it in front of his eyes. “I got a poison in me.”

And he’s breaking again; Dick imagines concrete falling apart beneath his feet, the boy vanishing slow as gravity pulls him down to…

“Why don’t you just step away?” His begging gets him nowhere; Jason stays resolute on the roof’s edge, toes of his beat up sneakers hanging over, and Dick hardens his voice. A new tactic, an order. “Step away from the ledge, Jason.”

He still doesn’t listen; the kid is so far gone, like a desert island alone in a sea of pain. Dick takes slow, measured steps across the gravel; he swings one foot over, then the other, feels oddly at ease so many stories up. He breathes, keeping Jason in the corner of his eye.

“Then we’ll sit here quietly.” He was here before, the boy on the ledge, the one wanting to just let it all go, die like he should’ve with his parents; sometimes he still feels like that, but it’s easier to handle when someone is there to help carry the burden. “Together.”

And Jason cracks more; emotions spill, feelings of worthlessness that Dick wants to capture in a bottle and lock far away from the boy.  _ Trauma _ horrifically pops up into his head when Jason mentions juvie and  _ four fucking people died _ . The kid is traumatized; it’s an odd realization, something he always knew but never really acknowledged until now.

The cockiness comes not from a teenaged ego but the dangers that come with living; he’s someone so vividly hurt for being so young that Dick’s whole soul aches to fix it. Because that’s what he does, he fixes problems. His hallucination had called Jason a  _ problem child _ ; he’s not a problem child, he’s a child  _ with _ problems and dammit Dick left him to deal with them all by himself. They fight monsters for christ’s sake but memories are going to be the death of them, in all technicalities have already ripped the life from them.

And Deathstroke piled more trauma on top of what he’s carrying. So much so that his foot glides out into open air and Dick feels acid bubble in his throat.

“Jason, wait!” It’s enough; two feet back on shaky ground, and Jason finally turns to look at him. A tear betrays him, sliding down the curve of his nose, falling to the street below. “Can I tell you a secret?”

It’s a give and take; Jason shared his pain, so Dick shares his. Assures him he’s not the poison, and when he’s spoken his peace he feels freer, wonders if Jason will come off the ledge now. Dick swings one foot, then the other, back onto the roof and shuffles close; a hand outstretched, Dick inches close.

“Why don’t we both come down, yeah?” And, as an added measure, just in case Jason doesn’t believe Dick’s the reason everything’s so fucked up, he adds, “We can face our poison together.”

The boy tips backwards like a branch in the breeze. It’s a miniscule movement, a sway more than anything, but Dick takes it as a sign; Dick latches to his wrist, tugs gently, lets him fall against his chest with a half-swallowed sob. Jason won’t admit it, probably won’t want to talk about it later, but for now Dick holds him tight and close; an arm around his shoulder, the other one curling to cradle his head against his collarbone.

Jason puts up no fight; instead, he curls closer with shoulders shaking and lungs heaving. Dick worries about that; Jason always has fight in him, running like the fucking Energizer Bunny drank a Red Bull brewed in a vat of Monster Energy. But that might just be a facade, a way to cope with the  _ trauma _ Dick is too stupid to address.

He takes a leap of faith when the kid has stopped shaking, presses lips to Jason’s sweaty hair, rubbing fingers through the spiky strands just above his ear. “Come on; let’s go back inside. Get you cleaned up. You’ll feel better after a shower and some sleep, yeah?”

He steers them towards the door; he still has to deal with Deathstroke, protect his team and his friends and his family, but right now he gets Jason through the doorway. The boy scrubs at his eyes, like a kid tired and upset, because that’s what he is; Dick keeps an arm around his shoulders, then when he feels Jason tensing up the further they get into the tower--the closer they get to the team congregated in the kitchen--he shifts it down his spine. To the small of his back, a light pressure, keeping him grounded.

He doesn’t know what happened, what fully triggered the suicide attempt, but the way everyone glares when they step into the room--the way Jason avoids eye contact, swooping out of Dick’s touch to scoop up his discarded hoodie--leads him to believe there’s more than just Deathstroke they need to address.

“Kori,” he calls out as he keeps ushering Jason through the room; he twists to put himself between who he can, a guardian for his little brother. “Gather everyone in the infirmary; I doubt Connor can be moved yet, so for now we’ll fortify there.”

“Jason drew crucifixes on my mirror!”

Dick falters; he turns momentarily to frown at Rachel, upset at the artifacts littering her safe space and curious at the accusation. “What?”

She waves a hand towards the older Titans. “He messed with their stuff too; a picture and a soda bottle?”

Jason’s jaw--and god he’s never seen anyone’s face get so blotchy from crying; he has a sudden  _ Alfred Instinct _ to bundle the kid in a blanket, hand him a hot cocoa, and hold him close while they watch Lilo and Stitch--twitches; a tell when he’s frustrated, wants to say something but won’t.

“Jason,” DIck cajoles; his hand moves subtly, up the bony protrusions and then back down. Jason’s shoulders shiver. “Talk to me.”

He turns his head up; Dick’s maybe a head taller, but just barely. Kid’s going to get big, a mountain; watch someone hurt him then, Dick vindictively imagines. Jason’s jaw moves once more and then he’s biting out “I didn’t do it” in a hoarse voice; his scrubs across his face again and Dick doesn’t comment on the moisture hovering on his lashes. “But they don’t believe me.”

It’s so desperate; a plea for Dick to make them believe him, to trust that he didn’t do these horrible things, that he’s not poison. Dick shifts his hand upwards, squeezes the nape of Jason’s neck and the boy absolutely melts at that. His eyes flutter shut, a few tears leaking out, and he breathes shakily.

“ _ You _ believe me,” he whispers out.

“I believe you.” Dick gives a gentle push towards the hallway, glancing over his shoulder at his teammates; he’s very much unhappy. “Deathstroke is here, in the tower; he’s the one who’s fucking with us. We’ll talk about this later.”

He leaves them there; if Deathstroke hasn’t attacked yet, only played mind games, then there’s still time. To prepare, to fortify, to recuperate a little bit. They end up in Dick’s bedroom; he pushes Jason to sit, kneels down and fits a finger into the knotted shoelaces. They’re a soft grey, worn out, comfortably snug; he works the first knot lose, slips the well-worn shoe off, sets the socked foot down and turns his attention to the other foot. Works the knot, slips the shoe off, sets the socked foot down. He sets the shoes aside, besides a pair of his own in the corner.

He turns his attention to Jason’s face, works to catch his gaze. “Hey,” he starts but doesn’t get any further.

Jason stands abruptly, rolling his shoulders, trying to hide behind his shield once more; he tries on a lopsided grin, but it’s thin and Dick sees right through it.

“Jason.”

“S’all good, Dickie; you can go babysit Rachel now. Deathstroke’s in the tower, huh? Interesting; think he tapped into the cameras? Spooky.”

Dick takes hold of his bicep to stop the kid from leaving, from running away; he shouldn’t be left alone right now. “Jason, I just pulled you off the edge of a building that you were going to jump off of--after almost dying less than a day ago in a very similar situation.” He tugs Jason closer, dipping down to see what’s got Jason’s attention. His wide eyes are glued to something far away outside Dick’s window. “Jason?”

In an instance the prickly nature falls away. “I’m falling again, Dick.”

Dick shifts; he blocks the bright light from the window, takes hold of Jason’s shoulders, presses into the tense muscle. “You’re not, Jay; you’re not falling. And I’m going to do everything I can to never have you in that situation again.”

For a moment, they stand quietly; Jason shakes periodically, his breath coming in altered depths, and he surprises Dick when he seeks out more comfort. He tucks his face against the hollow of Dick’s throat, arms crossed defensively but desperate for affection. Dick wonders momentarily how many hugs he got in his life; he makes a mental note to look into Jason’s file later. Bruce has a file on him, no doubt one for Jason too. It can help put some pieces into place…

Again, that’s something for later. For now, Dick digs his chin into the soft spot atop Jason’s head; he screws his nose up, digging in a little harder, and reluctantly shifts.

“You need a shower, little wing.”

Jason stiffens and Dick knows he’s fucked up; the kid shoves off him but Dick squeezes him close, refuses to let him go.

“No, I’m not trying to pawn you off; but you do smell and you’ll feel better after a shower, probably sleep better too.” Dick scrubs a hand over his face, squeezing Jason one last time before letting him go; he remembers how it felt when his hallucination had touched his cheek, so gentle and loving in a moment of pain. He reaches out and does the same; brushes his hand from Jason’s wild hair down to his jaw, cupping it and tapping his finger tips against his flushed skin. “Go,” he nods towards the bathroom. “Take a shower; I’ll go get you some clean clothes.”

Jason stumbles away with a deep yawn; Dick goes to rifle through Jason’s room, his dresser drawers, is sad to find that he’s barely unpacked his bags. One is even small, stocked with food and some other necessities. Dick recognizes a go-bag when he sees one; it hurts, but he takes a t-shirt, pair of boxers, and a set of sweats and leaves the room untouched. Jason’s still in the shower, the water running strong, and Dick ducks into the room to leave the clothes on the countertop.

He pauses before he leaves the sauna-like room, glancing over his shoulder where Jason’s silhouette is frozen in the steamed shower. “You’re not falling.”

That, oddly enough, pulls a chuckle from the kid which lets Dick know it’s okay to leave him alone; he waits in his room, just to be sure, safe, and he types out various messages to his team. Some orders, some harsh words… Jason emerges from the bathroom looking better, refreshed, the blotchiness gone and replaced with an overall color to his skin; Dick tells him he looks better, which earns him a small smile. Sheepish, Dick might say, but he's so used to the confidence he's hesitant to label it that. The kid doesn’t wait for permission, doesn’t ask, before jumping onto the bed and burying himself under Dick’s comforter, against his pillows.

Dick is forced to move over with a knee in his hip; he fishes under the blankets for the bony ankle, grabs it and squeezes warningly. “Don’t push it, kid, I’m very particular about who touches my pillow.”

Jason lifts his face--the circles around his eyes are so dark Dick is reminded of a crazed raccoon--and promptly drops a ball of drool from his mouth. It soaks into Dick’s pillow and he knows for a fact that pillow is going into a hazard waste dump.

“That’s disgusting.”

Jason’s grin, while sluggish, is warm and satisfied--cheeky; that is normal and the knot in his chest loosen just a bit. Dick turns back to the phone in his hand, stays still when Jason shuffles closer. A hand tentatively resting on his arm, leg digging against his own leg, breathing tickling a slate of exposed skin; the breathing evens out, softens, and Dick knows he’s finally--blessedly--fallen asleep.

Good, Dick thinks as he studies the wet curls against his shoulder; he wonders if Jason uses gel to spike his hair, since it’s turned into sweet curls. He bets Jason was a cute baby; maybe there’s a picture hidden somewhere in Bruce’s files.

Taking a risk, he loosens the grip on his arm--freezing when Jason pulls a face and mutters--and shifts it around the kid, pulling him closer; for now, they’re okay. Jason is breathing, alive, against his side; they’ll deal with the rest later.

**Author's Note:**

> if I dont end a Titan's fic with them cuddling in their sleep, I just might die


End file.
